Possessing Morgan

by Bonnie Edwards

  If enthusiastic but clueless entrepreneurs ever found out how much money he lent, he’d be inundated with requests, legitimate and otherwise. Only the most savvy owners saw that the real value was in Mac’s advice, more than his money.

  Jack grunted. Rubbed his face. “You’re right, of course. If you didn’t use the phoney playboy gambit as a screen, I’d be too busy with background checks on applicants to handle any real threats. Which reminds me, I want to replace the security system around the grounds. It’s not up to snuff.”

  “We’ve got cameras everywhere. What’s the problem?”

  “They’re five years old. The company that installed them was sold last year. No way to know who’s got access to their old files now.”

  Mac turned on his computer. State-of-the-art only months ago, it was already out of date. He should switch to the competition, but new software often made him wonder if he was running out of room in the cranium. “This should have been looked after before I got back.” He sighed. “Look, all I want to do is take that dream car out for a test drive and make sure Lindsay’s day is perfect tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have a team of eight at the wedding. And I’ll swap out the camera system.”

  “No team.” Mac sat and clicked open his e-mail inbox. Jack had a habit of slipping information into the middle of a conversation. “Thought you’d get that by me, didn’t you?”

  Jack swore. “Someone’s connected the dots of your life and come up with the right answers. You need security.”

  Mac considered. Whoever had taken the photos knew about his interest in local businesses and also when his jet had landed. They had also managed to be around his hangar, out of sight, to take the photos. This level of privacy invasion was a first, as was the vague threat.

  Previous stalkers had been much more run-of-the-mill. Mac had received life-size nude photos of women. Panties, used and new, had arrived. Late-night knocks on hotel room doors had happened more often than he could count. These incidents had resulted from his public persona. For a stranger to see behind the facade to his private comings and goings was another matter.

  No one had ever looked hard enough at his life to get this kind of information. Clearly, Jack was worried for Mac’s personal safety this time.

  “This person can get to you,” Jack pressed. “We need to take the threat seriously. Also, whoever this is, they’re smart.”

  Mac wasn’t worried. “But not as smart as you. And there is no threat, just some scrawled words on photos. I don’t read a threat there. You’re overcompensating because you let a junior man handle those irritating phone calls and you blame yourself for this.” He nodded at the package.

  Jack stood. At five-ten he was shorter than Mac, but had twenty pounds on him. He smoothed his hair. “Mona’s not the only one who should take off for a few days.”

  “Won’t happen. I’ve got too much to catch up on.” He couldn’t ignore his domestic work any longer.

  “How about Florida?”

  “The house there is under renovation.”

  “With laborers all over the place, it won’t be any more secure than here.” Jack nodded. “And your villa in Spain is too accessible.”

  Mac loved the place, but it was beachfront—too public if someone wanted to get to him. “I’m anxious to dig in here with the locals again. Hands-on is what I enjoy most.” He skimmed several e-mails that had been forwarded by his assistant in the main offices downtown. “As much as this will needle you, I want Lindsay’s day to go as planned. No hulking security guys with earpieces.”

  Mac leaned back in his chair, feeling oddly sentimental and out of sorts because of it.

  He wanted what Lindsay and Greg had. He wanted a connection with someone who saw the best in him, but knew the truth of him at the same time.

  Jack still argued but Mac interrupted. “I will not allow my security problem to ruin her day.” Lindsay’s parents had been killed in a car accident and her leg had suffered nearly irreparable damage. She’d also had to listen to her dying mother’s cries until she was rescued. It had taken months for Lindsay to speak again. He banished the image of her, frail and blank-eyed in her hospital bed. She wasn’t that child anymore.

  “If Lindsay knew, you’d have to accept security.”

  He would not let a few photos and a vague threat cast a shadow on her day. “That’s why you won’t tell her about the stalker. Not a word, Jack.”

  His friend left, hackles raised and back stiff. Mac couldn’t remember Jack this pissed before.

  He thumbed through a stack of reports to find something to grab his attention, but remained unfocused. Unsettled. Unhappy.

  Constricted by this stalker situation, he needed to blow off some steam. He could call an old flame. Forget it. The amount of effort it would take to get back into a woman’s good graces made him scrub his face in frustration. Then he heard Jack’s car fire up and peel off down the driveway.

  The Morgan called to him. He’d take her out, see what she could do. Lindsay had found the spectacular British sports car on the Internet last year. Her face lit up at first sight of the classic lines and thirties styling. She’d moved on quickly to a car more in her price range, but Mac had taken note of her lust for the Morgan. Against his advice, she’d bought an affordable tin can. A decision he was pleased to correct.

  But if he didn’t take the car for a spin pretty soon, Lindsay might guess the Morgan was hers. As he stood up, he heard the click and rumble of a large diesel engine. Odd. He looked outside and watched a tow truck pull in under the portico. The security monitor on his desk showed the gates at the entrance to the property were closed. How the hell…

  Jack was gone and Rory was in his room for his final tuxedo fitting. There was no one but Mac available to see why the tow truck was here. He hadn’t arranged for it, and he’d know if there was a problem with one of the vehicles.

  The truck did a three-point turn, making it clear what the driver was after. The Morgan! Mac glanced at the front gate monitor again. This didn’t make sense. If the truck had come in as Jack was leaving he’d have seen it and been on its ass all the way back up the drive.

  The truck backed into position directly ahead of the brand-new, specially ordered Morgan Plus 4.

  Like hell they’d get that car! Mac took off at a dead run, down the stairs, and careened to a halt by the front door. He slid on the freshly polished marble, but saved himself from a header by grabbing the handle. He yanked the door open and strode outside in his socks.

  “Hey, you!” Anger roiled in his gut at the sheer audacity of the thief. A sexy female thief in the tightest, shortest pair of shorts he’d ever seen.

  The woman was bent over between the tow truck and the Morgan, ass in the air. He snapped his mouth shut and took in the stunning view while his mind blanked out.

  Every boy’s dream came to life before his eyes and he couldn’t quite take it in: a big truck and a pretty girl. Together. He had a thing for Daisy Duke short shorts, ever since watching reruns of good ol’ boys and their sexy cousin when he was ten.

  But this was no rerun. This was here and now and she was a flesh-and-blood woman, tilted so perfectly he could see the fleshy mounds at the top of each leg. Flesh that bloomed into a pair of cheeks that sat high and round on the top of a great set of shapely feminine legs. If he wasn’t so antsy to find out what she thought she was doing, he’d stay there a moment just to enjoy a glimpse of fine female butt.

  He must be suffering brain freeze, because he had been standing there enjoying the sight of her!

  Which was exactly what she wanted.

  She moved each knee slowly, one after the other, making her ass cheeks move and sway. Another couple seconds of observation couldn’t hurt.

  She swayed her ass again, this time with her legs slightly apart. Heat spiked in his groin.

  The ploy was obvious, so he dug deep for control. “Hey, there, need a hand?” he asked, cool and quiet to keep his temper in check and his libido un
der control. He hadn’t increased the family fortune by letting sex or anger color his actions.

  Her head came up a fraction at his question. A mop of auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders. He’d always been partial to red.

  “Thanks for the offer.” Her voice came sultry soft and poker hot. “But I’ll just keep at it.”

  He responded the way any normal red-blooded male would. His blood rushed south of his waist and his mouth went dry, while his brain kicked into caveman mode. That dark, primal side of him wanted to drag her into his lair and keep her there until he was done with her, but the civilized half of his brain demanded patience.

  His palms broke into a sweat. Three months was a long time to be away. Even longer in Africa, where a man didn’t take chances with sex. No wonder his caveman wanted to take charge.

  He stepped closer, caught her fresh soap scent on the breeze, and his libido strained for the finish line. He cleared his throat. “What do you think you’re doing? Because you’re sure as hell not getting away with my car.”

  “I’m doing my job.” She tossed the words over her shoulder with a quick jab to his ego. The tone said she’d used the line too many times to count. He caught a flash of dark eyes, but she straightened immediately, as if she’d felt a boot to her rear end.

  She kept her back to him and sidestepped to the side of the tow truck. Her gloved hand landed on one of several control sticks with large round knobs on top. The movement emphasized her trim waist and womanly round hips. She shifted the controller and a bar slowly dropped to the ground behind the truck. She bent over farther to place the bar between the Morgan’s front wheels, snapping his attention back to her butt.

  He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so ignored.

  She looped straps around the left front tire and used S hooks to secure the straps to the T-bar. No chains, no giant hook. He hadn’t looked at a tow truck in years. Not since childhood, when all trucks had fascinated him the way they would any boy.

  If it wasn’t his car being stolen, he might want to see how this all worked.

  He should call the police, or at the very least Jack, but he’d left his cell phone on his desk. If he so much as blinked, this woman would hightail it down the drive with Lindsay’s Morgan.

  “How did you get in here?” he asked. He kept his tone conversational. “The gates are closed.” He’d checked the monitor himself.

  “You sure about that?”

  Her smooth competent manner made him doubt what he’d seen. He stepped out onto the drive to take a look. At the end of the quarter-mile lane, the double gates stood open. “But the monitor—Hell! You stay right where you are.” His security had been hacked. Jack would love being right.

  He stepped back to the front door, reached inside and pressed the button to close the gates. With satisfaction he locked the woman, her truck and the Morgan inside the estate with him.

  “You’re not taking my Morgan. Tell me how you hacked my security cameras.” He pointed to the gates as they swung shut.

  A satisfying fear flashed into her eyes. Now he had her attention. No more being ignored.

  But instead of fluttering her hands or backing up, she took the five steps required to bring her within kissing range and poked him in the chest. Hard.

  “Hey. No need to get physical.” Under the courageous glint in her eyes, a conflicting storm of emotion brewed. She was torn between interest in him and determination to do her job, whatever it was. He recognized that determination. As for the interest, it mirrored his own. He hid a smile.

  Maybe it wasn’t interest he saw. Maybe she was starstruck. He’d seen it before.

  Up close her eyes weren’t as dark as he’d first thought. They were a shade of green that often came with auburn hair—common if it weren’t for the flare of sherry around the iris. Her chin fanned into a square jaw that some women wore well. On a man it would be strong; on a woman it was sexy as Mother Nature could make it.

  This woman was tightly packed, beautifully formed and perfectly toned. She wore her thick hair parted in the middle, framing an arresting face free of makeup.

  Poke. She jabbed him again, while flinty eyes glared up into his. “No need to get physical? You let me out of here, or I’ll show you physical!”

  So, not starstruck. Angry. Maybe even frightened at being caught red-handed.

  “Do not poke me again.” He gave her his most intimidating glare. “That’s assault. You could be arrested. Correct that. You will be arrested.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He caught her raised finger before she could use it. Her hand was small, like the rest of her, but strong. She freed herself from his grasp.

  Good thing, because he’d damn near pulled her closer.

  3

  TWICE! SHE’D POKED Kingston McRae twice! Her hand flamed where he’d touched her, and for a split second she thought she saw desire flash behind his eyes.

  Up close, he was more manly, more intimidating, more dangerous than she’d imagined. Frustration boiled under his skin, the heat of it releasing his scent.

  More than hazel, his eyes were shot through with gold. Bristly and unshaven, his chin looked rough and her skin reacted viscerally as she conjured it scraping and sliding over her delicate flesh. Oh, mama! His sexual power called out to her female instincts in ways she’d only dreamed about.

  Kingston McRae had never been more than an abstract, an unreachable, untouchable impossibility. And here she was: reaching, touching, poking him. The man. The very real, very potent man.

  His attempt to intimidate her nearly worked. But she grounded herself with a reminder that she was here to do her job. “I shouldn’t have poked you,” she said. “I apologize. I, uh, react before I think sometimes.”

  Was it any wonder? Kingston McRae in the flesh! Her brain felt like a frozen slush drink, thick and barely moving.

  Get a grip, woman, he’s only a man. A man like any other who defaulted on a payment. He responded to the situation the same way they all did. That meant she could respond by rote. Her slow brain didn’t have to work. She kicked it into automatic.

  “I have every right to take the car,” she explained. “The papers are on the clipboard.” Out of her depth, and starstruck, she did what she always did. Got tough. “Read ’em yourself. Everything’s in order.”

  She tilted her head in the direction of the truck cab.

  “If you’d just look at the papers instead of staring at me, you’d see for yourself.”

  He blinked. Different colored pages fluttered in the morning breeze. Eyes dark as thunder, Kingston McRae catalogued her from her head to her toes and a frisson of awareness followed.

  The fact that he’d closed her only way out plucked a nerve. “Open the gates.”

  He glanced at the clipboard and she noticed a muscle jump in his jaw while he considered her request. “I need some answers first.”

  She should call BB. But her friend would blow a gasket if she learned Morgan had broken her number one rule: Never go anywhere without telling the office first.

  And also the second rule: Never trade paperwork without telling BB.

  The longer she could avoid that whole mess, the better.

  “If you don’t want to read the paperwork yourself, get someone else to do it. You do have other people to take care of this stuff, don’t you?” And there was the difference between this pickup and every other one she’d done. He probably didn’t even handle his own money.

  He opened his mouth, but closed it again without a word.

  “Before you ask, yes, I know who you are.” Then she turned on her heel and walked to the far side of her rig.

  “Bessie,” he said, reading the name she’d had lettered in rolling script on the side of the truck bed. “That’s short for Elizabeth. My mother’s name.”

  Taken aback by the change in tone from brusque to easygoing, she responded, “My mother’s, too.” But her mother hated the shortened form, considered it low class. But it
had grown on Morgan, and now she rarely saw the connection between the two names. Bessie was her rolling, rollicking baby while Elizabeth lived with husband number seven in a Florida condo, far away from Seattle.

  “So it’s not your name?” he asked.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pick up the clipboard and read the top page of the work order.

  “No, it’s not my name.” She took in his strong profile as he read. From the side, she saw his lips firm, and again that telltale muscle jumped in his jaw.

  “I paid for this car myself!” he blurted. Shock colored his tone belligerent, which suited her just fine. Belligerent was familiar. Belligerent she could handle.

  “I’m sure it’s just a mix-up, then.” Her tone was practiced and bland. “But, still, it’s my responsibility to pick up the car. You can sort out the mess after I leave.” She bent to loop the straps around the right tire.

  “It’s rude not to face a person when they speak to you,” he said as he watched her drop to her haunches to connect the S hooks.

  “Like I said, it’s a mix-up.” She smoothed her moist palms on her backside as she rose to face him across Bessie’s back end.

  Her face felt warm. She must look glowing and eager, but she refused to palm her cheeks and look even more foolish. With luck she’d get through this without drooling. She peered over his left shoulder, a trick she used to keep her impulsive nature in check, but it was impossible to treat him like an anonymous defaulter. He was Kingston freaking McRae, her very own version of Prince Charming in the flesh. Her heart raced and a new kind of adrenaline pulsed through her veins.

  Determined not to fall over from his blast of handsome, she shifted her gaze to his and prayed that he’d wave her away. “Open the gates, Mr. McRae. There’s no way you can fight this.” Many had tried, all had failed. “If it’s a mistake, and I’m sure it is, you’ll sort it out with the bank. The car will be back here in no time. You’ll see.” There, she’d given him his out. Most people used the bank error excuse to save face.